


01/10

by Siria



Series: Nantucket AU [43]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-10
Updated: 2008-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:15:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siria/pseuds/Siria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney is a January baby; a red-faced and squalling bundle placed gently into Janet McKay's arms while outside the hospital walls, Toronto's pedestrians and drivers alike curse the freezing rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	01/10

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Jenn for betaing.

Rodney is a January baby; a red-faced and squalling bundle placed gently into Janet McKay's arms while outside the hospital walls, Toronto's pedestrians and drivers alike curse the freezing rain. It isn't a day to welcome a child on; and the McKays, proclaiming to be of an unsentimental nature, never see fit to celebrate its anniversary much either. Rodney never let his birthdays mean much to him, not in Toronto or Boston or Area 51; now that he's living on Nantucket, though, he's got a sneaking hope, nurtured over a lazy September day spent with John, a Christmas with the two of them lazing in front of the fire together, that this tenth of January would be a different kind of day.

It isn't a hope that can survive in the face of a phone call from John, crackling reception bouncing from cell phone to satellite to the receiver clutched in Rodney's hand while John tells him that the clients — journalists or political analysts or shaven monkeys of some stripe or other, Democrat or Republican, Rodney hadn't really been paying attention — want to keep him on for a little while longer, what with the way the primaries are heating up; and what with the snow that Rodney's watching through the window, falling softly onto Nantucket Sound, it doesn't look like John will be back until the day after.

John says _I'm sorry_, and Rodney says _it's okay, fine_. He finishes his toast and tells John about the progress he's been making with his proof of Navier-Stokes; that Cash left a dead bird on the porch that morning, much to Rodney's disgust; and that John had better be wearing his warmest socks, because it's absolutely as cold out as Rodney said it would be. John laughs softly and says _yeah, Rodney_ and _love you too_; when Rodney hangs up the phone, he stands there quietly for a moment because he had hoped — but, then, there's no point in being maudlin about these things, is there? Waste of time and energy, not to mention the fact that he's had thirty-eight perfectly good birthdays before now; and let's face it, none of _them_ had boasted a warm kitchen to sit in, and strong Hawaiian coffee to drink, and a waiting stillness in which to work through the equations still taking shape in his mind. This is already demonstrably a better birthday than any of the others.

By midday, the trash-can is full to over-flowing with crumpled up pieces of paper, the coffee pot's empty, and the house is too damn quiet.

None of his other birthdays had had a big black dog, one who flops onto Rodney's lap and offers up his belly to be scritched while Rodney sits on the couch with a beer and flicks back and forth through the channels. Daytime TV is pretty much exactly the same as Rodney remembers from that one time a couple of years back when he'd lived on his couch for a week, except maybe the standard of plastic surgery's gotten better. He alternates between Stefano and Marlena's dramatic stand-off on one station, and Carly and Elizabeth's dramatic stand-off on another. The volume of the yelling reminds him of a conference he'd been to once, though the hair is certainly better tamed than that of your average academic; it's kind of impressive.

This couch is absolutely too big for one person.

"You know what?" he confides to Cash, flicking off the TV once the hair pulling gets started, "it's my birthday. I think I deserve cake. I am going to get cake."

But when he steps up to the counter in the Bake Shop and asks for one of their double chocolate cakes, he's greeted with an apologetic smile and the news that their very last one has just been sold to that gentleman over there. Rodney looks over, and up, and up, to see a guy he doesn't recognise, a stranger with dreadlocks and muscles, wearing a long striped scarf like something out of _Doctor Who_ and a tattered old pair of jeans, with _Rodney's _cake in a box tucked under one arm.

The guy raises an eyebrow when he notices Rodney's indignant scrutiny, and one corner of his mouth twitches when Rodney informs him, with what he thinks is a truly impressive amount of dignity, that he is making off with Rodney's cake.

"I have a receipt," Rodney is informed in deadpan tones, amused eyes looking out at him from beneath heavy brows. "I'm pretty sure it's mine."

"That is my very favourite cake in the whole world," Rodney says in what he's sure are tones of exaggerated patience, "and it's the last one and it's my _birthday_."

"This is for Teyla," the guy says, "and it's the last one and she's three months pregnant and has a craving." He points out of the window with the thumb of his free hand, and Rodney cranes to see a petite, dark woman with a fall of coppery hair sitting on the bench outside. Her arms are wrapped tightly around her middle, and there's an expression on her face that makes him reconsider his current strategy very quickly indeed.

"Actually," Rodney says, gaze flickering back and forth between the window and Mr Tall, "I think I'll have one of their chocolate chunkers instead, cookies, cake, there's not that much difference, really, is there?"

The man shrugs as if such pastry related decisions are of no concern to him. "There's some lemon cake left?"

Later, when Rodney calms down, and Ronon — that's what the guy's name turns out to be — stops laughing, he concedes a little and hands over a slice of chocolate cake to Rodney. And so Rodney ends up celebrating his birthday freezing his ass off on a wall at the bottom of Orange Street, licking chocolate from cold fingers, with a grumpy pregnant woman and some guy who looks like he should be in a rock band but turns out to be a high-school teacher.

Teyla doesn't seem to be too impressed by Ronon's cake-sharing decision at first; but well, Rodney can't help but be openly admiring of a woman no taller than his Great-Aunt Agnes who can put away that much cake that quickly, and she wipes away frosting from the tip of his nose with quiet amusement, so he thinks everything evened out in the end.

By the time Rodney leaves them to walk back, it's almost dark, and it's fully dark by the time he lets himself into their quiet house. He flicks through the playlists on his mp3 player until he finds something instrumental, low and lilting, and sits down on the couch to work through some more equations. A little after that, he reaches up to tug the afghan thrown over the back of the couch down on top of himself, and a little after that, he's asleep, nose buried in the seat cushion while Planck burrows herself down into the crook of his arm, claws kneading delicately at his skin.

He only stirs when he hears the scratch of Cash's paws against the door just before midnight, the turn of a key in the lock; cracking open one eye to see John standing over him, shadowed in the dim light from the lamp in the hall, snow caught in his hair, tired lines around his eyes and a smile on his face. "Hey buddy," John whispers.

"Y'flew back," Rodney mumbles, knowing there must be a smile on his face that's equally goofy. He shifts a little, feels Planck climb up the back of the couch with a disgruntled hiss. "Weather?"

John shrugs, face turned away while he peels off his heavy winter coat. "Eh," he says, "Could handle it."

Which Rodney knows might be true, but that doesn't mean it was _safe_; he's not stupid, he's seen the weather forecast; and he's so going to yell at John later for flying tonight. Rodney tells him as much when he kicks off his boots and crawls up onto the couch, stretching himself out the length of Rodney's side and burying his cold nose against Rodney's neck. Rodney can tell, from the curve of John's mouth pressed against his skin, that he's not particularly chastened by what Rodney's threatening; just hums something soft under his breath and mumbles "Happy birthday, Rodney," like it's the best kind of secret.

John's warm next to him, in his jeans and his old red sweater, the one where the cuffs are a little frayed, and his toes wriggle against Rodney's in their thick socks; Rodney's still drowsy, and John shouldn't have flown back, but he did; and so he wraps his arms around John, presses a kiss clumsy with fondness against John's temple, and starts to drift off to sleep again. John lets out a jaw-cracking yawn and settles in closer, murmurs "Y'have good b'rthday?"

Rodney nods, John's hair scratching against his cheek and says "Mmm, y's, made some friends."

John says "Tha's nice," and there's a long pause right on the brink of sleep before he says softly, "Brought y'a present."

"Mmm," Rodney says, eyes drooping closed, sliding one hand under the heavy wool of John's sweater to rest on warm skin, "Y'home."


End file.
